Page 42 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

THIRTY

Dear Lady Agony,

It is time to retire to my parents’ country house, where I will be with my family until next spring. I cannot say I’m looking forward to it. There will be no escape from their company. What suggestions do you have for keeping sane? I will take any and all recommendations.

Devotedly,

Time for Torment

Dear Time for Torment,

Time with family might seem like torment, but there will come a day when you would walk through muddy fields without shoes to find that kind of torment.

It seems impossible now, but trust me. It will come sooner than you think.

Until then, bring plenty of books and take plenty of walks.

They have saved me from despair many times.

Yours in Secret,

Lady Agony

Amelia had hidden the copied biscuit recipe in her library’s secret compartment, where she stored readers’ letters, and she and Kitty went there immediately upon returning to her house.

Upstairs, the drawing room was buzzing with rankling relatives, and Amelia paused only long enough to hear Aunt Gertrude insist on a joint of mutton for Henrietta’s arrival this evening.

She would hear of nothing less for her and her four boys after traveling from Frome.

With a shudder, Amelia replaced her parasol in the stand. She couldn’t imagine what the evening held for her, and by the sympathetic look in Kitty’s eye, she, too, was imagining the worst.

“I am serving veal if you’d like to join me and Oliver,” whispered Kitty.

“It’s tempting, to be sure, but I am needed here.” Quietly, Amelia tiptoed to the library so that no relatives would overhear them, but she couldn’t evade them completely. Uncle Henry was standing near the half-full sherry decanter when she entered the room.

“Good afternoon, ladies. I said to myself, here is a decanter gone dry. Why not refill it with the sherry your good Lord Bainbridge recommended? No, you need not thank me. Please, it is my thank you for inviting us to stay with you in London, which is no small gift.” Uncle Henry threw out his hands.

“You have a beautiful home, Amelia, if I may call you that in company. I speak for myself and the entire family when I say we are glad to be here.”

Amelia could only smile. She loved her family and her dear uncle Henry.

Sure, he drank too much and was a little rough around the edges, but he was a kind-hearted and generous man.

He didn’t say things he did not feel, and though she’d heard her home spoken of highly many times, it didn’t have the impact his words did just then.

“And I am glad to have you here—everyone. I’ve missed you all so very much. ”

He tipped his chin with satisfaction. “I imagine you and your friend came in looking for a little privacy. I’ll leave you to it.

” He started to walk toward the door and then paused.

“I’ll just take a cordial of this to go if you don’t mind.

” He poured himself a tipple. “Mrs. Hamsted.” With a bow, he was gone.

“Your family is so interesting,” proclaimed Kitty.

“Thank you … I think.” Amelia locked the door so that no one would descend upon them unannounced, which was a real possibility.

Then she opened the secret cupboard, found the copied recipe, and settled into the green couch with Kitty.

She unfolded the square and examined the ingredients.

Besides flour and butter, a substantial amount of caster sugar was involved, an ingredient not widely used.

It was what gave the biscuits their light texture and sweet taste, a simple but novel idea when compared to the biscuits brought onto ships and packaged for long journeys.

They were little more than tasteless rations to keep men’s stomachs full.

“Sugar,” said Kitty, repeating the conspicuous ingredient.

“That is what makes the difference—that and the lightening agent listed here.” She blinked.

“If they ice them, as suggested, just imagine the difference. Biscuits will be served alongside cake and other desserts. It will transform teatime as we know it.”

“I think so, too. Mrs. Rothschild’s recipe will make Mr. Baker a very wealthy man.”

“What he paid for them, whatever it was, will be nothing compared to his return on the investment.” Kitty put a hand to her heart. “If only Mrs. Rothschild knew.”

“We must tell her. Tell him,” Amelia added through gritted teeth. “He cannot think what he has done is fair.”

“No indeed.” Kitty shook her head. “How could he? Miss Rothschild bought some books, a necklace, and a walking stick. They are a pittance compared to his future profits.”

Amelia stared at the recipe, wishing it hadn’t come into the wrong hands.

But wishing didn’t make it so. Mr. Baker had the recipe.

He planned on mass-producing the biscuits.

He would have never agreed to her order otherwise.

He anticipated their grand reception at her wedding breakfast and their subsequent demand.

To be hailed as a success in Mayfair would certainly secure their future.

When she considered it, she herself might have unwittingly contributed to their assured triumph.

She sighed.

A dusting of flour from the factory bake room covered a corner of the paper, and distractedly, she swiped at it with a finger. Then stopped.

Something was coming into focus. She continued to stare at the words on the paper, trying to make it out.

“What is it?” asked Kitty.

“I don’t know—yet.” Inadvertently, she had pushed the white powder over the fl in flour, and when she did, it spelled the word our. Our. The same word as the scrap of paper in Mr. Cross’s fireplace. The paper hadn’t been a letter. It hadn’t been a note. It had been a recipe.

She glanced up at Kitty, whose face told her everything she needed to know.

“My God! Mr. Cross had the recipe.”

Amelia believed even Mr. Cross would have forgiven Kitty’s use of the Lord’s name in vain, for the idea was so striking, so certain, that her hand began to shake.

“That’s why it was burnt in his fireplace.

No one else could possess the recipe if it was to be produced in bulk.

It must remain a secret until Mr. Baker reveals the original. ”

“Tomorrow,” exclaimed Kitty.

“Yes, tomorrow. Which is why something must be done today.”

A soft knock came upon the door. “Psst … Amelia. Are you in there?”

Amelia started at the sound of Winifred’s voice. “One moment. I’m coming.” She tucked the recipe into her desk drawer and opened the door. Winifred glanced behind her as if to ensure no one was following her.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” said Winifred.

“Never.” Amelia pushed open the door wider. “Come in. Mrs. Hamsted and I were only looking for a quiet space to converse.”

“Good day, Mrs. Hamsted.” Winifred bobbed a curtsy.

“You won’t find any upstairs. Aunt Tabitha and Aunt Gert are debating the cooking of meat in no uncertain terms. One believes in roasting it and the other in boiling it.

I guess there is a great difference in the taste of the meat.

” Winifred shrugged. “But that’s not why I’m here.

I’m here because I’m looking for Madge. Have you seen her? ”

“Not since this morning at breakfast.” Amelia had seen her eat enough ham to feed a small army and wash it down with three cups of tea. She took it as a sign of her improved mood. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I don’t need her for anything.” Winifred blinked her big blue Amesbury eyes. “I only wondered where she was. She and I talked of walking to the park after breakfast.”

Amelia went about soothing the girl. “I’m certain she would have liked to—heaven knows she doesn’t want to bother about the wedding.

But she has several last-minute alterations to tend to, not to mention her meeting with Mr. Penroy.

She missed an entire day with the dress debacle, and now she must make up for it. ”

“I’m sure you are right.” Winifred scrunched up her button nose. “Only, I’d hoped she’d be free by now.”

“She most likely will be occupied the remainder of the day.” Amelia smiled. “Are you certain you don’t need me?”

She returned the smile, shaking her head. “No. Miss Walters is waiting for me in the music room. Good day, Mrs. Hamsted.”

“Good day, Lady Winifred.” Kitty sighed and smiled as the girl left. “You are very lucky, Amelia.”

“I remind myself of that fact every day.” Amelia, too, still smiled at the door.

When Edgar became ill soon after their marriage, she knew they would never have children.

He would never risk passing on the degenerative disease.

Yet, here was Winifred, who felt as close as her own daughter.

Life had a way of working out beautifully.

She turned back to Kitty. “Now what to do about this recipe?”

Kitty stood. “We must confront Mr. Baker. It is the only option.”

Amelia stood also to stop her friend from making a dangerous decision. Oliver had just become used to the idea of Amelia being Lady Agony. She couldn’t risk Kitty—or any of her friends—doing something rash. “Today is Sunday. Mr. Baker won’t be at the factory.”

Kitty smoothed her pretty pink garibaldi blouse. Her skirt revealed a matching pink petticoat that went with it beautifully, and on her hat was a feather the exact same color. “We shall go to his house then.”

“We cannot be certain he is the one who burnt the recipe,” cautioned Amelia.

She also wanted to confront Mr. Baker, but if he was the murderer, she didn’t want to put Kitty in harm’s way.

And it was true that they didn’t know if he was the culprit.

He was Mr. Cross’s friend. Mr. Cross had referred parishioners to his factory.

Would he really murder a friend and priest for money?